The other, Varya, a plain short girl in my service for only a few months, practically whispered, “Beautiful, Your Highness.”
As the two maids began to tighten my whalebone corset and fasten the long row of buttons up the back of my dress, I continued to examine myself with great criticism. So many had told me how pleasing I was to the eye-the kind proportions of my face, my fairish hair, and soft gray-blue eyes-but I could never find that beauty in myself. Yes, I made quite a ceremony of dressing for the evening, but the truth was that I spent all those hours looking for problems, for I was all too aware how much my husband hated imperfections, from the curl of my hair to the cut of my dress. If there was so much as a crease or an uncomely fold in my gown, the wrong necklace or uncalled-for earrings, my husband would demand that I change.
Yes, Sergei was a difficult one, and though I loved him and remained ever dedicated to him, I could not deny that over the course of time we had pulled apart, in large part, of course, due to his sternness and demands. Too, the painful truth was that I had fully expected and hoped to bear a number of children, yet for his own reasons Sergei had made this not possible-though we shared a bed, I was forever denied more than a brusque kiss. Thus, in truth, a kind of tense fondness had come to exist between the two of us. From the bedroom to the stable, every decision, every choice, made within our household was his, with the strictest belief that we were all to obey and all was to run punctually and with great order. Even the smallest decisions, the petticoat type, were not mine to make, and in no way was I expected to busy myself with intellectual burdens. Almost as if I were his decoration, Sergei planned my life to be filled with painting and piano, social occasions, and, at most, participation in charitable activities. Yet such a carefree life was not entirely pleasurable, for among other things I could not deny that I was pained by the absence of little feet running about the Palace. And so it was that in my great disappointment and loneliness I longed to do more good for the people, the suffering ones, just as my own dear mother had taught me.
Heavens, as I readied myself for our public appearance at the opera that evening I couldn’t help wonder what gossip would make the rounds of tomorrow’s tea tables. On the subject of my married life, the most horrid things had been told and retold about my husband’s predilections, and over and over it came as a great astonishment that people could talk of such things. And while these stories hurt me, all I knew was that if one were guided by gossip scant good would get done in this world. Such was my life and my fate, however. I just had to keep in mind that my only duty was to obey the vows of marriage, which were sacred before God and could not be altered. As a member of the reigning family, it was up to us to set the best example for the nation… and yet as of late there had been a rash of unequal marriages, even a few divorces. Shameful, it was, not to mention simply immoral, all these morganatic unions. Even Sergei’s younger brother, the dear, dear Pavel, had broken this firm family law by taking a bride not from another ruling house but from a lower station-and not even a princess at that but a commoner-for which the Emperor had banished him from the Empire.
I had long held it dear to my heart that to live in amplitude one must have an ideal. Ever since my childhood in Germany mine had been to become eine vollkommene Frau zu werden. A perfect woman. And most definitely that was difficult because first one had to learn how to forgive everything, and to do so with full understanding. And could I do that? Could I achieve my ideal? I was always striving, but feared it would forever escape my grasp.
I loved Sergei, I truly did, but what I had never revealed to anyone was that the first person I had to forgive-and which was proving so very difficult for me-was none other than him, my husband, from whom I so craved kind word and soft touch.
Chapter 12 PAVEL
My secret group had been tracking the Grand Duke for weeks, and it was true, we were so confused by the way he darted from the Neskuchnoye Palace on the banks of the Moscow River to the Governor-General’s Palace on the Tsverskaya, next to the small Nikolaevski Palace within the Kremlin. We had no idea why he was moving around like a scared mouse, darting here and there. Some of us proudly convinced ourselves that he was dashing around because he was afraid of us and thus trying to lay no regular path, others had heard rumors that there was to be a shake-up in the government, still others claimed that all the stories were true, that the Grand Duke was no lover of women and was simply darting from boy to boy. And while I had no reason to doubt these tales-I had heard tell that there were a handful of other grand dukes inclined to stable and ballet boys alike-I really didn’t care where or with whom His Imperial Highness dabbled after dark. All I was certain of was that he was not so high and mighty, or so pure and noble, as he pretended. On account of his irregular movement, however, it was nearly impossible for us to pinpoint a time and place for our attack. It was so frustrating for us who were so ready to kill for the sake of our toiling workers and Mother Russia’s hungry peasants.
When, however, we saw in the Moskovskaya Vyedomosti, that major newspaper, that the royal couple would be attending the opera at the Imperial Bolshoi Theater on the night of February 2, well, we developed our plan almost instantly and quite easily, too. It was not far at all from the Kremlin to the Bolshoi, and there really was only one route for them to follow from that ancient, massive fortress-through the Nikolsky Gate, to the left across the end of Red Square, past the Aleksandrovski Gardens, and then onto Voskressenski Square and from there to the Bolshoi. So we decided that we would be waiting along the way, hiding in the shadows.
Of course, we all wanted to do the deed, none perhaps more than me. I had been admitted to this select group of revolutionaries because I had recently passed a test-I had slit the throat of a pathetic government fellow in Novgorod and stolen a big sum of money too. And because of this success I was allowed the honor of helping to kill the Grand Duke Sergei.
Heading our group was Ivan Kalyayev-“Our Poet,” we called him because he wrote beautiful words and always carried around worn books of poetry. He was an educated fellow, most definitely, and everyone knew he was eager to kill for the Revolution, and eager to hang for it too. But you’d never know his dark intentions by looking at him, for he had a girlish kind of face, so soft and tender, with a big forehead and dark hair and intense blue eyes that would sometimes fall with great sadness. He was the comrade chiefly in charge of our group, and because of his seniority, even though he was young, maybe twenty-five or -six, he was given the honor of throwing the bomb. This made sense, naturally. My only hope was that I would be caught along with Kalyayev and be allowed to hang with him too. Da, da, da, that was my secret wish, to avenge my wife’s death and then dangle, spinning in the wind, from the gallows.
Also in our group was Dora Brilliant, a smart Jewess, and a pretty one at that, who had abandoned her good home and easy life and become very dedicated to the Revolution. She was a trained chemist and she made good bombs, very effective, the kind packed in a tin container with kieselguhr. This Dora made the bomb, and my first duty was to pick it up.
It was promising to snow the day we planned to kill the Grand Duke, the sky a dark flinty gray, the wind strong and determined. Finally, the snow started sometime after six, just as I wound my way across Red Square and past the Upper Trading Row, a vast building of shops constructed in the old Russian Style with big arches and heavy windows. Heading into the small lanes of Kitai Gorod, I passed row after row of shops, each one given over to a specialty, this one selling lace, the next canvas, then honey, lanterns, furs, and dyes. Turning onto the Ilynka, I watched the snow blow this way and that up the street, and I thought how good it was. In fact, knowing what we were about to do, I was happy for the first time since my dear Shura had been gunned down by the Tsar’s command.
By this hour the many banks and trading and lending houses lining the Ilynka had long since closed, so there really weren’t that many people about, just a few lowly clerks and such scurrying through the cold, their heads bent. At the appointed time-se
ven o’clock-I reached the designated corner and glanced around as gently as I could, seeing no one. I was, it seemed, in front of some kind of money house, and I drew back into the deep, arched doorway, my collar pulled up, more to hide my face than to block the cold. Not two minutes later, I heard the dull clatter of hooves on the snowy street and peered out. A small sleigh was making my way, its driver huddled against the snow. As if I were greeting an old friend, I stepped out, smiling and waving to him. This was our Savinkov, who, I think, was born in Warsaw and who had long been dedicated to ridding his homeland of the tsars. He had a keen, intelligent face, and when he saw me he smiled, his teeth so white in the night. Really, no one ever took him for a terrorist. He looked much more like a minor aristocrat from Poland, with that medium-brown hair, that sharp face, his tall forehead.
The bomb that Dora Brilliant had so carefully made for us was wrapped in a handkerchief, and I accepted it from Savinkov as if it were nothing more than a pot of warm pelmeni. We exchanged a few stupid words, and then I trundled off toward the Kremlin. Glancing back only once, I not only saw Savinkov and his sleigh disappear into the dark-he had one more bomb to deliver to another of our conspirators-but could detect no one following me.
Yes, this was going to be easy, very easy. All we had to do was lob this bomb through the carriage window, and that, without a doubt, would be the end of a Romanov or two.
Chapter 13 ELLA
Half to myself, half to my maids, I said, “I’m just not sure about the color of this dress. Perhaps that’s what’s bothering me. It may be too bright. Perhaps something more muted would be more appropriate for tonight. After all, we are at war and there is great suffering.” I turned to my maid. “Varya, fetch me my green velvet dress, you know, the one Madame Auguste finished recently. I know this is a gala event to benefit my Charity Fund, but I think that one might be more suitable for the times.”
Varya bowed her head and replied, “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but that one has yet to be brought over from the Governor-General ’s Palace.”
“Oh, I see…”
What a pity, I thought, my thin lips coming together in a distinct frown. Ever since the workers in Peterburg had stirred things up and organized the march upon the Winter Palace, there had been nothing but confusion, confusion, confusion. Yes, it seemed that over the past month nearly every worker had gone on strike, and prices were soaring. Why, even as protected as I was, I knew that Moscow itself had nearly shut down, and in my dealings at the workrooms I’d even heard talk from the street of assassination and revolution. Turmoil everywhere, that much was painfully obvious. And that was how scared we were, that we had to hide behind the thick walls of the Kremlin fortress, that we couldn’t travel about without worry. What had the world come to?
“Well, then,” I said, smoothing the fabric around my waist, “I suppose this dress will have to do. But, honestly, Varya, will you see to it that all of my personal belongings are gathered here at the Nikolaevski as soon as possible?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Sergei’s work here in Moscow would soon draw to a close; after so many years of service there remained only a few more weeks. Because of this and the fact that we were constantly moving from one residence to the next, none of the people of my Personal Household-not my mistress of the wardrobe, parlor maids, linen maids, stewards, footmen, dressmaker, and so on, let alone either of these two lady’s maids or any of my official ladies, for that matter-was sure what was to be sent where, whether here to the Nikolaevski, to our Palace in Peterburg, or to Ilyinskoye, our country residence. And it was no wonder such confusion reigned, for when we officially moved from one residence to another-even just for the summer-it was as if we were moving an entire village, for no fewer than 300 souls were attached to our household.
“Once all of my things have been gathered here,” I continued, “a decision will be made on what is to be sent where.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
As my maid turned to a velvet-lined case and lifted a stunning diamond diadem topped by five exceedingly large aquamarines, I stood silent, still carefully examining myself in the mirror. If I were not mistaken, the skin cream, which I myself concocted from fresh sour cream and cucumber, did appear to be doing its work. My complexion, even for a woman over forty, seemed fresh and supple. Of course, a proper woman of good station never painted her face, merely applied a touch of rice powder or rouge from time to time, but even this I always refused.
For the performance this evening Sergei had informed me that I should wear this parure, consisting of this diamond and aquamarine diadem, matching necklace, and bracelet all done in garland fashion. I had no idea of the value of such jewels, for a price in gold rubles was never put on any of my gems, and I was forbidden to ask. Actually, both Sergei and I valued such treasures by their real worth-design and color-and this suite was extraordinary, one of Fabergé’s most original. And yet as my maids settled upon my head the exquisite headpiece and fashioned upon me all the rest-the necklace, stomacher, bracelet, and rings-I felt a distinct sense of unease. This blaze of fine stone simply seemed too brilliant, too jubilant, for this evening, particularly surrounded by the shimmering collar of my dress. In fact, I could almost hear my grandmother, Queen Victoria of England, hissing with disapproval.
“It’s not safe there in Russia, I tell you!” Grandmama had sternly warned upon hearing of my marriage proposal more than twenty years earlier. “There is such excess there, so much vulgar show. Really, my dear, the government does so little to improve the well-being of the common people-it’s shameful! Truly, I will be sick with worry for you, my dear child.”
And yet I could not tread against the formidable will of my husband, so I had no choice but to wear such riches that evening. I only hoped that tonight’s gala event, a benefit for my charities, would be a success.
As I gazed into the triple mirror and admired and adjusted the veritable cascade of diamonds and such, I heard the sound of quick footsteps, and knew immediately who it was, my young niece, the Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna, herself all of fifteen years. Against my own will, my spine tightened.
“Why, Auntie, you look beautiful this evening,” said Maria, rushing up and kissing me on the hand.
It was true, the child was a spoilt one, just as it was true she’d had more than enough trouble in her short life, for her dear mother had died giving birth to her brother. And that was how the two young ones came to us, for after Maria’s mother had passed so sadly from this world and her father banished for his morganatic marriage, the Emperor had placed the two children under our guardianship. Sergei, who insisted that he was their father now, adored them both, but I was not at ease with them, particularly the girl, for, to be brutally forthright, they were painful reminders of my own failures in marriage.
At this child’s kiss, I couldn’t help but stiffen and even physically retract, pulling away quickly from the girl. Wondering what she’d done wrong, Maria looked up at me, her new mother, in confusion. As a granddaughter of the Tsar-Liberator Aleksander II, this child had her own jewels, her own furs, her own servants, and of course a most substantial income, yet what she did not have-the soft touch of a warm mother-was what she needed most.
I turned to my maid, and even I was surprised by the words that came out of my mouth as I said, “Varya, please inform my young niece that it’s rude to make such personal remarks in front of a servant.”
Maria couldn’t hide her shock, and tears welled up in her eyes, but I pretended not to notice. Yes, I thought, I mustn’t be touched like that. Sergei didn’t, and neither must the children.
Less than an hour later, looking every bit a Grand Duchess of The House of Romanov, I descended one side of the double grand staircase of the Nikolaevski Palace. I wore long kid gloves that came up over my elbows-it had taken both maids to put them on-and a long sable cloak that trailed the floor. Behind me, a puffy frown on her face, traipsed Maria, who had been dressed in finery appropriate her
age, complete with a mink coat, and her younger brother, the forever sad but forever sweet Dmitri. He was wearing a mock uniform of sorts. And behind the two children came my gowned Starshiye Freilini, the ladies-in -waiting of my own court who would attend me that eve.
No sooner had I set foot on the ground floor than a uniformed guard opened a large side door, through which my husband and his aide-de-camp promptly stepped. With the exception of the Emperor, who took after his petite Danish mother in stature, Romanovs tended to be either as tall as a tree or as big as a bear, on occasion both. Sergei was among the former. His posture was always impeccable, if not unnaturally stiff, and he was toying then, as he so often did, with a jeweled ring on his little finger. And that night as he studied me with his small, intense eyes, he wore a brilliant blue uniform jacket with gold-thread epaulets and numerous diamond-studded medals.
I stopped before him for inspection, and stood as beautifully as I could. How could he possibly find fault with me?
“Open your cloak, my child,” he commanded as he screwed up his eyes and studied me with great intensity.
I did just that, pulling aside the sable and exposing my pale-yellow dress and sparkling diamonds.
Finally, he all but grumbled, “Fine.”
The Grand Duke then turned to the children and suddenly smiled, stretching out his arms. His obvious joy at seeing them did nothing but hurt my heart.
“Why, my children, don’t you look ever so beautiful tonight! ” exclaimed Sergei. “Come here, come into my arms and give your new Papa-yes, I’m your Papa now!-a great big kiss!”
I just stood there, my face stern, my anguish hidden, reluctantly watching as my husband scooped these children up into his eager arms. Yes, I had always wanted children of my own-I had wanted them almost as much as I still wanted the intimate affection of this man whom I had once so tenderly loved and looked up to.
The Romanov Bride Page 5